


Blot Out the Sun

by fallen_woman



Category: Rome
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_woman/pseuds/fallen_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavian lies to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blot Out the Sun

Now that he has been fucking Livia for months, Octavian can claim to some proficiency in this arena. She partakes in their daily couplings not only with docility but enthusiasm, breasts slopping, breath harshing with every slap given or received. Surely, it is a pure, proper alignment of desires, white and black, white to black.

He would never be a master swordsman, but his adult body is more than satisfactory in its sculpting and finesse. It occurs to him, in the middle of fucking Livia one night, that this current prowess would have served him well the one time Octavia lay with him in service to a woman long dead.

He needs to want his sister. Even as Caesar, he needs to be left wanting, to strengthen his discipline. Visually transposing his sister’s face onto his wife’s heaving body is an easy enough feat, but as soon as he smacks Livia, the fantasy dissipates; although it was Mother who first conjoined in his mind pain with passion and thus would be entirely well-served if he whipped her until she creased with blood, he would never, never strike Octavia, who did not bear pain well (and that was striking, wasn’t it, that when his sister was attempting the seduction she was absolutely herself, nervous and artless, and that was most exhilarating of all).

It occurs to him that given his temperament, faculties, and ambitions, there is no alternate path that would have preserved Octavia’s affection. He has bridled her, and the empire. There is no alternative. Thus, he returns to the well of memory. Dilating, rotating, revising.

Instead of wincing at the ceiling while his elder sibling half-heartedly mounted him, he would have lifted her up with her legs around his waist. She would have clenched all around him, and he would have serviced her with such vigor that their petty defenses would have fled them, like so much sweat spatter. Perhaps, he would have made his sister venture another round, and then another, until their fundamentals—his intellect, her embarrassed morality—leached from their bones. Perhaps, at the brink of daylight, he would have pulled her damp body to his, hand over eyes, so that in his mind it was still night, hours before they would be discovered.


End file.
